


Read this Truth

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fake Marriage, Mild Language, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper’s relationship, or whatever it is…she still hasn’t been able to find a proper name for it, with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor. Flash forward years later and she wonders if he knows that this particular favor will kill her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**_Disclaimer_ ** _: I own nothing._

* * *

_Read this Truth_

_Part 1_

* * *

Molly Hooper's relationship (or whatever it is…she still hasn't been able to find a proper name for it) with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor. Not a simple one. One that had to do with a body and body parts and sulfuric acid…it was all very grotesque and any _other_ person would have thrown him out of the morgue while simultaneously phoning Scotland Yard.

 

Not Molly though. No. Instead, Molly cocked her head to the side and studied him. She couldn't read the man (she couldn't read any man, or woman, or _anyone_ really) but she could see that he really did want to experiment and he was almost- _almost_ -brimming with a sort of excitement that children get when they're told they get to have ice cream after dinner (she knows this because her brother uses that bribe on his son all the time.) At the same time, she could tell it's an unrestrained sort of excitement, something pulsing through his veins that is clearly _not_ natural adrenaline.

 

She doesn't answer for a few moments and he opens his mouth and proceeds to tell her _everything_ about her. Her jaw drops as he dissects her life (her lonely pathetic life.) He's cold and callous and obviously doesn't care about her feelings at all, but Molly can't help but find herself fascinated. He's an enigma. He's different. He's… _Sherlock Holmes_.

 

"Neat trick." She breathes out.

 

He looks affronted. "It is not a trick. I observe and deduce."

 

"Okay." She says because she doesn't know what else to say.

 

"The body-"

 

"Oh, that." Molly interrupts, "you're going to have to ask Mike. Mike Stamford, he's-"

 

"I know who Mike Stamford is." He snaps.

 

Molly narrows her eyes. "Ask his permission, then and get me the proper paperwork."

 

He's silent. "The liner brings out your eyes." He looks shocked at what just came out of his mouth and Molly freezes, scalpel mid-air. "It makes them less small." It's a lame finish but Molly can't help but blush.

 

"I still can't just give you what you requested. You really do need to talk to Mike. I'm-"

 

"New." He finishes. "Yes. I _know_." And with a sweep of his large black coat, he's striding out of the morgue leaving a bewildered and very confused Molly behind him.

 

She stood up to him though. No matter how hard her heart pounded against her chest. No matter how much she was yearning to let him have free reign in her morgue, she stood her ground. She resolved to not weaken because her father and brother raised her better than that. She would not give in to anyone (not even to a brilliant but obviously unhinged man with piercing blue eyes.)

 

He later comes in, not with the proper paperwork but with Mike. Mike tells her while rolling his eyes to let Sherlock Holmes do whatever he wants and give him whatever he needs and _for the love of God keep him away from Doctor Saunier, lest you would like one-if not both-of them to be your next autopsy_.

 

He smiles proudly, almost smugly but his eyes dance with excitement and glee.

 

(And just like that, she's done for. All her strength she thought she had disappeared the moment Sherlock Holmes walked into her morgue. She's royally screwed herself over; she knows this, because her thudding heart won't let her forget.)

* * *

He comes in all the time. Haunting her. Taunting her. It's almost unfair how her heart skips a beat whenever she sees a black coat, not just at the hospital but everywhere. She thinks she sees him everywhere she goes and it's starting to drive her crazy. _He's_ starting to drive her crazy.

 

But she can't help but admire him. He's brilliant. He's so brilliant, it hurts. She wonders what it's like in his head sometimes. She wonders what she would find there.

 

Then one day, a year after she meets him, she sees him explode. It's a horrible moment. He's vicious, more so than usual, cutting her down with barbs sharp enough to stab her and make her bleed. He rips her very being to shreds, he deduces her father's deteriorating health and her brother's struggles as a single parent and her constant need to be nice to everyone, to see the good in everyone. It's not like she can help it, it's who she is. It's a trait she shared with her mother.

 

She stands there shocked. Astonished. Mortified. Worried. For _him_. Because that's just who she is. "Sherlock…are you…okay? Did something…happen?" Oh, now she stutters. _Fantastic_.

 

"I'm fine." He asks, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised. "I'm fantastic. I'm… _glorious_. Everything is glorious. Don't you see? Can't you see? _Why can't you see, Molly_?" He's gripping her arms and pulling her to him and Molly would have been internally screaming for joy if he weren't gripping her arms so tightly that she knows she'll have bruises for days.

 

She looks into his eyes and almost rears back. His pupils are blown back and he looks…he _is_ …high. _Oh. God_. "Sherlock." She says quietly, "What did you take?"

 

"What haven't I taken?" He admits gleefully. He laughs loudly and it's like nothing she's ever heard.

 

"You're high. You need help. You need…need...rehab."

 

His grip tightens and she lets out a cry. "You're hurting me!" She yelps and wrenches herself away from him. She cowers in the corner, staring at him with wide eyes. She's breathing fast, her pulse is racing, heart pounding.

 

The morgue doors burst open and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade comes in. He takes one look at Sherlock and then at Molly. She knows he's taking in her defensive and terrified stance and how she's rubbing her arms with trembling hands. She knows he's taking in Sherlock's eyes, appearance and he snaps. He grips Sherlock's face and looks at him. "What are you taking? What have you taken?" Sherlock doesn't answer; he just keeps staring at Molly. "What have you done? Sherlock, _what have you done to Molly_?"

 

"I'm fine." Molly croaks out, her voice shaky, she's not fine, she's nowhere near fine. "It was…an accident."

 

"Don't." Sherlock snaps, his voice cold but his blue eyes are still staring at her, "defend me." He looks at Lestrade and shakes him off. He grabs his phone and texts someone. With one last (hesitant) glance at Molly, Sherlock leaves.

 

(She finds out the next day, from Lestrade, that he went into rehab.)

 

Molly cries for days. She likes to think it's because of her fading bruises but she knows it's not. She cries for Sherlock and not even because he has to turn to drugs but because she knows what it's like in his head now and she wonders how long he's been so lonely.

* * *

When he comes back from his three-month stint at rehab, he's different. His eyes are clearer, he looks healthier. He's much more…like the Sherlock she always pictured in her mind.

 

He's there, in the morgue when she comes in for the morning shift. She jumps and lets out a small yelp when she turns on the light to see him standing in the same spot he was in all those months ago. He's staring blankly at the corner, where Molly cowered in fear all those months ago.

 

"You're back." She says softly.

 

He turns around slowly and Molly drinks him in like he's alcohol. "I hurt you."

 

"It's fine…you were…not yourself." It's an excuse and a pathetic one but Molly doesn't have it in her to hold it against him.

 

"It was not my intention to hurt you. The drugs…while clouding my mind are not an excuse and you should never forgive me for putting my hands on you and hurting you."

 

"I do though. I always forgive you." It's her curse. It's his blessing and her curse.

 

They're silent and he stares at her, eyes roving her body, as if looking for any lasting injuries. "You're letting your hair grow. It suits you."

 

Molly smiles, bites her lip and can feel her face heat up. "I have a body…if you need it."

 

"Male, between forty-five and seventy-four?"

 

"Female." She corrects him. "Between thirty-one and forty."

 

"That will do."

 

And just like that, they're back to normal.

* * *

 " _Are you familiar with the term masochist?"_ Her brother asks her over the phone one day.

 

"No." She says bluntly.

 

"No _, you're not familiar with it or_ no _, you're just in deep denial."_

 

"I am not a masochist. That's just…why would you say something like that?"

 

Her brother growls, " _Because it's true. For fuck's sake Molls, the guy is a tool. He's using you, he insults you all the time and he put his hands on you. I'll kill him if I ever see him and if I didn't live in bloody Cardiff, I would."_

 

"How's Sammy?" She asks after her nephew who she hasn't seen in entirely too long. She wants to see him. Wants to see her brother and her father and hold their hands and look at old photos.

 

" _You're changing the subject."_

 

"How perceptive." God, she's beginning to sound like him.

 

" _Sherlock Holmes is going to break you, Molly. He's going to break you and I'm going to be sent to prison for murder."_

 

She laughs. It's forced.

 

Sherlock Holmes won't break her. He'll kill her, but he won't break her (not anymore than he already has.)

 

* * *

 

The years pass and blur and her entire life revolves around Sherlock Holmes. Her friends from Uni don't bother to visit her anymore (not since the Dave incident, oh _God_ , she doesn't ever want to think about that, ever again) and her colleagues steer clear from her and the morgue.

 

The only companions she has are the dead, a Detective Inspector and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

 

She continues to do him favors and continues to do herself none. She still watches him as he conducts his experiments because Sherlock Holmes at work is glorious. A sober Sherlock Holmes at work is even _more_ glorious.

 

(She sometimes gets calls from his landlady Mrs. Hudson who begs her to remove the dead body parts before she faints. She's a lovely old lady and Molly has tea with her often. Mrs. Hudson called her out on her crush on Sherlock the moment she met her. When Molly asks one day how she even got her number, Mrs. Hudson smiles, cocks her head and says, "why, Sherlock, of course.")

 

She's worked up the courage to ask him out a couple times. He completely misreads her questions, or just blatantly twists them. Either way it's rejection. But Molly swallows her tears and smiles because for every rejection, he's always there. He always comes back and that means something, right?

 

She knows how he likes his coffee, how he likes his tea, how even though he says he doesn't eat much, he particularly likes lemon poppy seed loaf. She knows what stool he prefers, what microscope he likes, she knows _everything_ about him. Well…almost everything. She can never understand his heart. Sometimes in her darkest moments, she wonders if he even has one.

 

"You're happy." He tells her one-day. "Why?"

 

She looks shocked and then she shakes her head. "My brother is getting married." Her brother finally met a woman who wasn't intimidated by having a stepson and who actually cared for both of them. Molly couldn't have been happier when she got the call and the subsequent invitation. Katie asked her to be her maid-of-honor and Molly said yes automatically.

 

His face twists. "Sentiment. Disgusting."

 

"You're against marriage too?" Why does this _not_ surprise her?

 

"Marriage is an inconvenience not to mention ridiculous as divorce rates are rapidly increasing, you should not get your hopes up on a happy marriage. Nearly every marriage fails."

 

"It must be horrible to be you." She claps her hands over her mouth.

 

He stills. "Pardon me?"

 

Molly shakes her head rapidly.

 

"Don't cower now Molly. Finish. What. You. Were. Saying."

 

And because she has nothing to lose, Molly's hands fall to her side, hanging limply. "I just mean…you don't…you don't believe in sentiment. You don't believe in love…or…or…friends. I mean you've got me and we're friends…at least I think we are but you always…I don't know. You believe in science and observing and…deducing and…doesn't it get lonely? Don't you ever…I just feel bad for you."

 

"Is that what friends are for? Is that what sentiment is for? _Pity_?"

 

"No." She flushes. _Oh, this is going all wrong, how did you expect it go Molly?_ "That's not…you're twisting my words."

 

"If I were to ever require a friend, _Miss_ Hooper, it most certainly would not be you." He belittles her credentials and that hurts the most because _she_ knows she's good at what she does. _He_ knows she's the best at what she does.

 

Then he storms out, leaving behind Molly with tears of humiliation and heartbreak streaming down her cheeks.

* * *

Her brother's wedding is small and it's in Cardiff. She hasn't seen Sherlock in nearly two months and she's worried that he's relapsed or worse, dead.

 

Her brother is happy. Katie is happy. Sammy is happy. Her father is weak and tired and he smiles when everyone is looking but Molly can tell that even he's happy.

 

Molly is happy, if she can stop being so sad.

 

When she looks at her brother's and Katie's beaming faces, she wishes Sherlock were here with her so she could show him what it means to be loved and have someone love you back.

* * *

Sherlock is at the morgue when she comes back.

 

"I'm sorry." She says to him quietly, not wanting to disturb him.

 

"I need a body." He doesn't bother with an offhand compliment, which he's started to include before every request, knowing full well the cruel hope it places in Molly's fragile heart.

 

She nods and goes to get one for him.

 

Everything is back to normal.

* * *

John Watson comes into the picture on a dreary cloudy day.

 

Sherlock's interests are immediately piqued. (It's been three years and Molly _knows_ him by now. Knows that she will never hold his interest for longer than a fleeting moment.)

 

Molly can feel him drifting further and further away from him until she realizes that she doesn't matter. She's _never_ mattered.

 

Not to Sherlock anyways.

 

(He still asks for favors and Molly always grants them.)

* * *

Jim from IT is nice. He's funny and kind and he's smart. _Almost_ as smart as Sherlock. He's clever too (he knows who the killer is in every police show and movie they watch.)

 

He's attentive to her and he's really a fantastic kisser and she thinks that she could finally- _finally_ -be happy with someone. It's been so long after so many failed dates that she finds herself with an extra spring in her step.

 

Then Sherlock Holmes shoots her happiness right in the face.

 

Jim for his part just shrugs, tells her that he really did like her and that she almost _-almost_ -makes him sorry.

 

(She has no idea what he's talking about.)

 

Then she finds out _Jim_ is _Moriarty_ and that he's not from IT but actually a psychopath Consulting Criminal.

 

(And now she knows exactly what he's talking about.)

* * *

" _Come up for Christmas."_

 

"Working." She tells her brother.

 

" _You're always working. Sammy wants to see his auntie and Katie is driving me mad."_

 

"You're the one who got her pregnant."

 

" _Don't remind me. Call me then at Christmas yeah?"_

 

"Yeah, of course."

 

Their father died a few months earlier and they're struggling to hold on to who they used to be.

 

 _The Hooper Orphans_ , her brother joked once, then he promptly burst into tears.

* * *

She should have gone to her brother's. It would have saved her the embarrassment. All she wanted was _one_ chance. Just _one_. To make Sherlock _see_. For all that he observes and deduces, he can't _see_ what's right in front of him.

 

Until she's verbally beaten, broken and bloodied. She remembers thinking that she would have preferred that day in the lab when he grabbed her so tight he bruised her, than _this_.

 

Irene Adler happens a little bit later and Molly suddenly knows what all his rejections were about.

 

And she knows that she _never_ once, _ever_ , stood a chance.

* * *

" _I'm going to kill him."_ Her brother spits.

 

"I think…that I want to first." She tries out the words and immediately wants to take them back.

 

She couldn't ever. She _loves_ him too much.

* * *

In the end, she does kill him. But only because he asks, as a favor.

 

And Molly has always granted his favors.

* * *

He's off fighting Jim's- _Moriarty's_ -network but he comes back every now and then. He always needs patching up and she never hesitates to try and piece him back together. She tells him about John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson quietly, never once mentioning herself and what she's going through.

 

He never asks, just stares at her.

 

Two and a half years in of lying, mourning, and watching the people who mean so much to him (to her) try and piece their lives together, Sherlock comes to her.

 

As always, with a favor.

 

"Molly, I need you to marry me."

 

There is so much wrong with that sentence. So much. But Molly doesn't fight because she sees something in his eyes, almost a sort of desperation, _almost_. "Okay." Molly Hooper has never denied him and she never will.

 

She's an idiot.

 

A masochist. (Her brother will laugh until his throat bleeds.)

* * *

Molly Hooper's relationship (or whatever it is…she still hasn't been able to find a proper name for it) with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor.

 

She wonders if he knows that this favor will finally be the one to kill her.

 

He probably does.

 

He probably doesn't care. Because for everything he's said, Molly Hooper doesn't count. Not really.


	2. Part 2

Ever since she was a little girl, Molly Hooper always dreamed of her wedding. Of her engagement. Of the man she would pledge to spend the rest of her life with. She would always entertain herself late at night, when sleep eluded her, about a man with bright eyes and soft hands and an even softer disposition telling her that he _loves her_ , that he _can’t live without her_ , he’d _do anything for her_.

 

Then Molly Hooper grew up and went through rejections and failed dates, short-lived boyfriends, disgusted faces about her job and how much she loves it and realized that her wakeful dreams were just that, _dreams_. No man with bright eyes, soft eyes and an even softer disposition will tell her that he _loves her_ , that he _can’t live without her_ , he’d _do anything for her_.

 

Because romance and love, they’re for dreamers and Molly has long since stopped being a dreamer.

 

She won’t lie though, there are times when she sees couples so in love, and she yearns to have someone beside her. Someone to hold her hand and keep her from floating away. It’s in those times that she’ll retreat back to that little girl, dreaming of a man who doesn’t exist. (He _does_ exist though and this is what hurts the most.)

 

“We leave tonight.” Sherlock says. “A car will be at your flat. Get in it.”

 

“Where are we leaving to?” Molly asks him, her voice croaking and mind suddenly swirling with thoughts of _what to pack_ and _what the fuck is she getting herself into_?

 

He fixes her with a stare. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He presses something into her hand, stares at his watch, sighs and leaves the morgue.

 

Molly blinks and she opens her hand to see two small round silver rings. One of the rings is a silver band encrusted with small diamonds and the other ring is a simple band with one small diamond in the middle. Molly’s hands shake and her body trembles when she slips them on her left ring finger.

 

Even though she’s stopped dreaming, she always held onto the hope that the man proposing to her would still get down on one knee and slip the ring onto her finger. She always held onto the hope of wrapping her arms around him and burying her face into his neck, inhaling the smell of him while her heart burst with happiness. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to take her one last hope and destroy it.

 

(She lets a few tears slip from her eyes because _God help her_ ; the rings feel like they _belong_ on her finger.)

* * *

_“What do you mean you’re leaving?”_ Her brother asks her, his voice rough.

 

“It’s just for a little bit.” She says, she cradles her mobile between her neck and shoulder as she folds her clothes and places them delicately into her suitcase.

 

_“Where are you going?”_

 

She pauses. “I don’t know. I just…I think I need to leave. Just for a little bit.”

 

_“Yeah, but Molls, where? For how long? Why?”_

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

_“Un-complicate it for me.”_ Her brother is persistent; he’s always been so persistent (out of the two Hooper siblings, her brother is the one who never lost hope, she envies him for that.)

 

“I can’t.” She admits to him. She really can’t, not only because it would ruin everything Sherlock has accomplished these past two and a half years he’s been gone and it’s not even because she knows what her brother’s response will be if she tells him the truth, but because she just literally _can’t_. Because even Molly can’t fully comprehend why she’s doing this but then she glances at the rings adorning her finger and a selfish part of her _wants_ this. She _needs_ this and _damn_ the consequences.

 

Her brother lets out a deep breath and sighs, _“it’s about Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?”_

 

“Yes.” She’s not spilling any secrets but she’s also admitting a _little_ truth that eases the guilt off her chest.

 

_“You never did properly grieve for wanker did you?”_

 

_He never gave me the chance to_ , she thinks wildly to herself. “No. No, I didn’t.”

 

_“Stay in touch and be safe. I love you.”_

 

Tears cloud her eyes. “I love you too.”

 

She hangs up and continues to pack, ignoring the way her rings glint in the light.

* * *

There is a soft knock on her door and Molly opens it, half expecting to see Sherlock but somewhat unsurprised to see Anthea. She’s met the young woman a few times, when Mycroft would need to talk to her. She never did like those talks; she always leaves feeling all of two feet tall when she talks to Mycroft Holmes.

 

Anthea looks unimpressed and her fingers are flying rapidly over her Blackberry. “Time is of the essence, Doctor Hooper.” She says softly.

 

Molly nods, grabs her suitcase and carry-on bag, takes one last look at her flat, shuts the door and locks it. She follows Anthea to a sleek black car and puts her suitcase and bag in the trunk. The ride is silent with Molly staring out the window and Anthea on her mobile.

 

They pull up to the rail station and Molly follows Anthea out and grabs her bags. “Where is he?” She doesn’t say his name, can’t risk even uttering his name. Even though it’s been two and a half years, Molly knows it’s not safe to say his name, in case anyone is listening.

 

“He’ll be there.” Anthea hands her a small bag, “everything you’ll need is in this bag. Here’s your train ticket. Good luck.”

 

There is ball twisting in the back of her throat and it burns a path through her entire being. She feels alone. She feels so alone in a crowd of people.

 

“Doctor Hooper?” Anthea calls out, her fingers are still against her Blackberry and when Molly finally looks at the younger woman, she’s wearing a sympathetic expression on her face, on that screams pity or maybe even empathy, Molly isn’t sure. “Congratulations.” Then she gets in the car and leaves.

 

Molly is still as alone as she was before.

 

(For some reason the rings on her finger feel heavier than they did before.)

* * *

She finds her compartment and sees that she’s sharing with three other people. An older man with grey hair, wearing a blue track suit and has his face buried in the newspaper, a teenage boy is sitting next to him, his earphones in his ears and his phone permanently attached to his hands share one bench and an elderly woman with black hair streaked with grey, warm brown eyes and dimples that match the wrinkles on her skin is sitting next to Molly.

 

Molly sucks in a deep breath as the train starts moving and fiddles with her rings.

 

“Congratulations, my dear.” The older woman says, her voice loud and clear. She reminds Molly of Mrs. Hudson.

 

“I’m sorry?” Molly asks politely.

 

“You’re rings. You’re fiddling with them and they look so beautiful and new. You remind me of myself when I first got married, I was so nervous too. Congratulations, is your young man going to be joining us?”

 

_I don’t know. I don’t know anything when it comes to Sherlock Holmes_. Molly leans her head against the window and watches as raindrops start falling. “No. I don’t believe he will.”

 

She _tuts_ with her tongue. “You haven’t lost him already, have you?” She says this as a joke and Molly knows she doesn’t mean any harm; it still doesn’t stop it from hurting any less.

 

She sighs and gives the older woman a small sad smile through the window, “I don’t believe I ever really had him to begin with.”

 

A crinkling noise gets her attention and she sees the older man with grey hair and the blue tracksuit fist his newspaper. It’s odd but Molly is too exhausted to think about it, so she just stares out the window as the rain continues to weep from the sky.

 

(It’s raining the day Molly Hooper gets ( _fake_ ) married. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise her.)

* * *

The train comes to a stop in Paris and Molly knows that this is her stop, so she grabs her bags and bolts out of the compartment before anyone can say anything. The sun is just starting to set in Paris and Molly vaguely wonders how the night sky looks like in Paris. She looks around the station, lost and hopeless. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Doesn’t know _who_ she’s looking for. She’s just searching for a familiar face. Someone that’ll remind her that she’s not alone and that her life for the past five years has not amounted to being left stranded in Paris with fake rings on her left finger.

 

She should go back home. She wants to go back home. _No_. Actually, she’ll take a train straight into Cardiff. She’ll play with her nephew, she’ll help Katie and she’ll curl into her brother’s side, with his hands running through her hair as she sobs over her loneliness and heartbreak.

 

(Heartbreak follows Molly around wherever she goes. At least, this is what she believes since Sherlock Holmes walked into her life and blew it apart.)

 

Sighing, she drags her suitcase to a bench and takes a seat. She places her suitcase next to her and clutches her carry-on bag as if it’s her shield. She wonders how she looks to other people. Does she look as sad as she feels? Does she look as tired as she knows she is? Can they see her breaking? Because she can feel herself breaking.

 

Her chest shudders and she reaches into her jeans pocket to take out her phone. Maybe she missed a call. Maybe she missed a message. (Maybe she’s just dreaming. _Come on, Molly. Wake up. It’s time to wake up_.) Her phone mocks her when it shows her that she hasn’t missed a call and no one has messaged her, except her brother letting her know that _they love her and to call as soon as she gets to wherever she’s going_. (She still has no idea where she’s going.)

 

She remembers when she was younger; she always wanted to go to Paris. _It’s the most romantic city in the world_ , she used to argue to anyone who would and would not listen but Molly doesn’t feel that way now that she’s older and _definitely_ not in this moment.

 

She watches as the station starts to gradually empty out until there’s only a few handfuls of people rushing in and out, going about their day, ignoring the woman on the bench, fiddling with her new rings and debating taking them off.

 

(In a fit of rage, she decides that she hates Sherlock Holmes. Then she takes it back. She doesn’t hate him. She can’t hate him. Like she can’t deny him, she can’t hate him.)

 

This is her curse. It’s his blessing and her curse. And so, she waits. For what, she doesn’t know. But she hopes it’s something. _Someone_.

 

(She hopes for Sherlock.)

* * *

It’s her intuition that tells her she’s being watched. She gets the feeling in her stomach and goose bumps erupt over her body. She shivers and clutches her carry-on tightly. Her brother taught her how to fight when she was younger and for someone so small, Molly Hooper is no fool. She knows how to defend herself. But it still doesn’t stop her from taking in a shaky deep breath.

 

She turns her head and looks around; spotting no one she should fear. (She thought she didn’t have to fear Jim, she was wrong on that account, even though he really didn’t do anything to her, but he did make her kill Sherlock and she’ll never forgive him for that.)

 

Someone slides onto the bench next to her and Molly jumps and then she feels her heart beat faster. Damn him. _Damn him to hell_. He looks unruffled. He looks calm. Undisturbed. She sighs, defeated. “How long have you been watching me?” She should have known it was him (she takes small pleasure in the fact that she was indeed, not as alone as she once thought she was.)

 

“Since you got onto the train.” He answers her truthfully.

 

She narrows her eyes and stares at him, then at his hands. Her breath hitches at the silver wedding band that is seated comfortably on his left ring finger. It looks like it belongs there. She doesn’t let herself think about what that means. “The old man in the compartment?” She never once saw his face but then again, all Molly wanted to do was forget about everything, she ignored her surroundings. And then she feels horrified as she remembers her conversation with the older woman. _Oh God_.

 

Something flickers in his eyes (remorse and maybe a little shame, but Molly always did have a wild imagination) and he nods. “There is a car waiting for us.”

 

And so, like she’s always done, she follows Sherlock.

* * *

A car is waiting for them but no driver, which is why it surprises her when, after her bags are settled in the trunk of the car, Sherlock gets into the driver’s seat. “You can drive?” Molly asks.

 

He huffs. “Why does everyone assume that I can’t? I prefer not to, in particular with the traffic of London but yes, I can drive.”

 

“Curious, is all. It just seems like such a…” _human thing for you to do_ , she finishes in her head “not posh thing to do.” _Oh, Molly. You sound like an idiot._

 

He gives her a look that clearly says, _Oh, Molly, you are an idiot_ and she’s back to feeling two feet tall (something that only the Holmes brothers can apparently accomplish).

 

She settles into the passenger seat and watches as he maneuvers in and out of traffic. “Where are we going?”

 

“A place just outside of Brittany.”

 

“Are you going to tell me why?” That is the question she wants answered. _Why_. Why is she here? Why is she doing this? _Why her_?

 

He’s silent for a few moments. “There is someone very important that comes to the village this time every year. I’ve tracked the records and I know for a fact that Moriarty used to constantly visit a specific house and I have reason to believe that the person I am looking for, the one person who can end all of this, will be coming back.”

 

_Jim._ Jesus Christ, everything has to do with _Jim_. Everything is connected back to _Jim_. She feels queasy. “So, then, why am I here?” If this has to do with Jim’s network, there is no reason why Molly needs to be here, where she will undoubtedly put her life at risk. Again.

 

“The house I am renting from…its owners are very…old fashioned. They believe it odd to have one man living in the house for an undisclosed amount of time and they do not approve of unwed couples, which in itself is tedious not to mention ridiculous, since it is statistically proven that unwed couples generally lead happier lives then their married counterparts, therefore, they only accept married couples.”

 

Right. So, she’s a _tool_. She’s a _pawn_. A stepping-stone. She’d tell him that he’s no better than when Jim was using her to get to Sherlock, but she’s almost positive that he’d never _ever_ forgive her for that, so she bites her lip from lashing out and stares at her left hand where the small diamonds glint in the moonlight.

 

She sighs, fiddles with her rings, takes them off her finger and slips them into her pocket. It hurts to look at them now. She turns her head out the window and watches as Paris disappears from view.

 

(She misses the way his eyes narrow and the way his jaw clenches when she slips the rings into her pocket.)

 

Then again, Molly misses a lot of things when it comes to Sherlock.

 

(This is his curse and her blessing.)

* * *

An elderly couple waits for them on the porch. The house is small and homey and the older woman starts talking rapidly in French and Sherlock answers back. In _French_. (Which, okay, fine, she just fell _that_ much more in love with him. _Damn_.)

 

He looks completely different than how she usually sees him. He’s animated and he’s smiling more than usual. (But even Molly knows that this is for show. That this is fake. As fake as the rings that she slid on before they exited the car.)

 

She jolts when she feels Sherlock sneak an arm around her waist and holds her close to his side. She hesitates to place a hand on his stomach but when she does, she can feel his stomach ripple from her touch.   

 

She doesn’t bother listening to the conversation (not that she can understand it) but she glances at the other house behind her and she shivers. It’s a dark and foreboding house that oozes mystery and danger and _God, what did she agree to_? What would Jim want with this house? She feels Sherlock’s arm tighten and she turns back to the conversation, smiling politely at the couple.

 

They hand Sherlock the key and suddenly the two of them are alone, as the couple get into their small car and drive away from them.

 

Sherlock doesn’t let go of her waist but instead, ushers her into the house.

 

Her stomach rumbles and she smiles gently at Sherlock. “I’m going to make something to eat, we do have food here, right?” He nods distractedly as he looks through every window. “Do you want anything to eat?” She asks because it’s the polite thing to do. Even though she knows what his answer is going to be. She’s having a sense of déjà vu of that day back in the lab when she told him bluntly that she doesn’t count and she _knows_ just how much she doesn’t. (She still believes it.)

 

“Molly.” He says, his voice rumbling, almost warningly.

 

“You’re on a case.” She answers back. “Yeah, I know. I was being polite.” Her words are bitter and he turns his head to stare at her. He’s assessing her, picking her apart bit by bit. He opens his mouth and Molly feels sick. She knows what comes next. She knows that he can’t help the inevitable insults but she can’t…she just…can’t. Not now. Not today. Not ever again. “Don’t. I just…I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. Where’s the bedroom?”

 

He’s still staring at her, still looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. So, he just points to the second room on the left and she grabs her bags and walks into the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

 

She doesn’t know how she’s going to do this. Doesn’t know how she can get through this.

 

(In the end, Molly finds that she doesn’t know anything.)

* * *

It’s late, she’s exhausted, still hungry and she’s _almost_ asleep when she hears the bedroom door open softly and hears Sherlock’s soft footsteps edge towards the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he’s back out and from the moonlight, she can see that he’s shirtless and her breath hitches. He’s _beautiful_. Her heart thuds painfully and she pretends to sleep, even though she knows its no use.

 

He slides into bed next to her and stays firmly on his side. “It would look odd if we’re married and not share the same bed.” He explains.

 

She squeezes her eyes tighter and clutches at the blanket. She can feel the warmth of his body and she yearns for it. She yearns for him. She turns around to her other side and examines him. “Who is he? The _someone_ that will end all of this?”

 

“His name is Sebastian Moran. He’s Moriarty’s second-in-command.”

 

The name sounds familiar but Molly is too tried to wonder why. So, instead, she falls asleep listening to Sherlock breathing.

* * *

 She wakes up once in the early morning, the sun is just starting to rise, coloring the sky a wonderful shade of bright pink, she’s warm and her arm is numb and there is a hand running through her hair and tracing little shapes on her back. Her head is pillowed against something hard and she hears an unsteady (almost racing) thudding underneath her ear.   

 

She lets her eyes open lazily and sees Sherlock, head tilted back and staring at the ceiling. He shifts slightly and his hand pauses in its ministrations, letting Molly know that he knows she’s awake. She holds her breath and then lets it out, her breath ghosting across his chest, as he continues to run his fingers through her hair and trace shapes on her back.

 

She curls back into her previous position and falls back asleep, ear pressed firmly over his heart.

* * *

 In the morning they don’t talk about it.

 

He acts like nothing happened. Maybe nothing did happen. Maybe she was dreaming.

 

(Molly knows she wasn’t. Her body is still tingling from his lingering touches.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's official...Fanfiction hates me. So, I'm going to be moving this story over here. Hopefully you guys like and thanks so much to everyone who is reading and the Kudos. It's very very much appreciated! Keep `em coming! :D Love you guys.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly remembers her mother, meets a stranger and things get heated with Sherlock. Only for it to freeze.

When Molly was younger, she used to love watching her mother get ready. It wasn’t often her parents went out anywhere, but when they did, her mother would smile, giggle and usher little Molly into their bedroom, where Molly would perch herself on the large bed and watch in awe as her mother went about and got ready for the night.

 

Her mother would talk to her, make her laugh, tell her jokes, reminisce about the days when she watched her own mother get ready and that one day, _she would do this too_. Molly would grin widely and she promised her mother that she would tell her own daughter about everything they would talk about.

 

Molly’s mother would laugh, cup her cheek and press her lips to her nose, “Oh, I know you will, my little Molly.”

 

When Molly is six years old, she watches her mother put on her lipstick and slip on her shoes and then she turns around to face Molly. “How do I look?”

 

“You’re very pretty mummy.” Molly answers. She rolls on her back and stares at the ceiling. “Mummy, can I ask you a question?”

 

Molly can feel the bed dip as her mother sits down, wrinkling her beautiful dress. “What is it sweetheart?”

 

“How do you know when you love someone?”

 

Her mother chuckles, “why do you ask?”

 

“Eric told me he loves me.”

 

“Ah…” her mother says, she kicks off her shoes and lies down on her stomach next to Molly. “When I first saw your father, I thought my entire body was going to explode. My stomach was doing cartwheels, my heart was racing, my palms got so sweaty, my throat closed up…I thought I was having an allergic reaction. We were at the circus and I wanted to go on the Ferris Wheel and none of my friends wanted to go, so I waited in line, determined to go by myself, when at the very last moment, your father jumped the line and sat himself beside me.”

 

“ _Really_? He jumped the line? Wasn’t anyone angry?”

 

Molly’s mother laughs, her eyes twinkling, “so angry. But he was already seated so they let him up anyways. I stuttered like mad. I couldn’t form a proper sentence. I was a University student, studying Literature and _I could not form one sentence_ , for the life of me. Your father, bless him, thought it was adorable. I was mortified.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Her mother smiles wistfully, “we got stuck at the top for a bit while they let some more people on and he told me that he noticed me the moment I walked in with my friends and that he knew I was the one for him when I beat him at the bottles game. He held my hand, you know, when we were at the top.”

 

“Did your heart stop beating so fast?”

 

“Oh no. If anything it beat faster and I felt so faint. I couldn’t help it, Molly. Your father was- _is_ -the most handsome man I ever-laid eyes upon. He’s funny and smart and clever and he loves so completely. He’s not afraid you know, your dad. Of anything. Always tackles the world head on, your father does and with a smile on his face too.” She kisses Molly on her nose. “Does Eric make your stomach flip? Does he make your palms sweaty? Does he make your heart beat faster until you feel as if your about to burst?”

 

She crinkles her nose and shakes her head without hesitation. “No. Should he?”

 

“Not if you don’t love him, my little Molly.” Her slender fingers crawl against Molly’s stomach and Molly shrieks as her mother tickles her. Her mother laughs and hauls her up in a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She slips back on her shoes and kisses Molly’s forehead. “One day Molly, you’re going to meet someone and he’s going to make you feel as if you can’t breathe without him. He’s going to make you stumble over your words and he’s going to make your heart beat as fast and loud as a drum.”

 

“Falling in love doesn’t sound like fun. It sounds like it hurts.”

 

She smiles, “Molly, the best of loves are often the ones that hurt the most. It wasn’t always easy. Your father can be a right pain, you know. But I love him and he loves me and love, Molly, _love_ is the most glorious feeling and adventure you’ll ever go on.” She holds out her hand, “come on, let’s go downstairs together, so we can both giggle at how _I_ can make your father stumble over his words. Turnabout is fair game and all that.”

Molly doesn’t know what that means. All she knows is that when she and her mother come down the stairs, her father is helping her brother with his homework and he stops mid-sentence and stares. His mouth is hanging open, before he smiles widely, eyes bright and grabs her mother by the waist and twirls her around, “I’ve done rather good for myself, if I say so myself.” Her mother looks so happy, as her father twirls her around, laughter ringing from her mouth. And if this is what love looks and feels like then Molly can’t wait to fall in love.

 

(This is how she’ll always picture her mother. This is how she’ll always remember her mother, because when she and her father walk out the door, it’ll be the last time she ever sees her mother.)

 

_It was a car accident_ , she’s told, _the other car came out of nowhere_. She doesn’t listen to them. She can see her father in the corner, body bruised and bloodied, holding his head in his hands and sobbing. She can see her brother; tears streaming down his face while one of their neighbors hold him. And Molly? Molly creeps into the room where she knows her mother is and holds her hand. She promises to make her proud, she promises to make her happy and she promises to fall in love as intensely as her mother did.

(Her mother’s body is the first dead body she sees and in a way she’s the catalyst for everything that happens in the future.)

* * *

She has boyfriends here and there but she doesn’t feel that all-consuming love her mother talked about.

 

She’s ready to give up on ever finding that passionate love her mother and father had and is coming to terms that maybe-just _maybe_ -she’s holding on to something that doesn’t even _exist_ anymore.

 

Then one day, a tall, pale, slender man with piercing blue eyes who calls himself a Consulting Detective walks into her morgue and Molly’s breath is literally _stolen_ from her body.

 

(Sherlock Holmes walking into her life is single-handedly the greatest and most damning thing that has ever happened to her.)

* * *

 She’s in the local village one day (without Sherlock) and she’s walking along the cobblestones and peering into the local bakery with its fresh bread and mouth-watering pastries (she swears she’s never going to be able to fit into any of her clothes again) when suddenly it begins to rain.

 

In retrospect, she should have realized that Brittany’s uncommonly nice weather would not have held out (she regrets wearing her polka dot dress now). As it stands, she’s stuck in the rain for a good five seconds (which really, is five seconds _too_ long as she’s soaked by the time she realizes that she’s _standing in the rain_ ) so she takes cover underneath an awning and waits patiently for the rain to stop or let up.

 

She’s there for a while, hands clutching her bag of food and praying that it doesn’t get wet.

 

_Not that anyone else eats the food but me_. She can sometimes force Sherlock to eat, by reminding him that he won’t be able to bring Jim’s network down and that he won’t be able to return to London, to Baker Street, to John by starving himself. He reluctantly eats when she tells him this and tries her best to ignore the hurt she feels when he eats for those reasons and not for the sole reason that _she’s_ there and _she’s_ worried about him.

 

He’s still obsessed with scaling every window and eyeing the house across from them with hawk-like eyes. She can’t blame him and sometimes she even helps him, taking his place when his eyes unwillingly drop and he succumbs to sleep that he doesn’t allow himself to have. She still has that feeling in the pit of her stomach that Sebastian Moran is more familiar to her than he should be but she can’t figure out how or why.

 

(She doesn’t tell Sherlock this. She doesn’t tell him that she feels like she knows _something_ about Moran because then he’d need proof and she doesn’t _have_ any proof. And she doesn’t think she can handle the look of disappointment on his face that will inevitably directed at her. So, she stays silent.)

 

_It’s weird_ , she thinks, _being fake married to Sherlock._ It’s everything and nothing she thought it would be. He’s still moody, he’s still the same Sherlock Holmes that she knows and is used to but there are some moments that…confuse her. Some moments that leave her wondering what he’s doing, what he’s thinking. What he’s planning.

 

She still goes to bed on her side but somehow always wakes up with her ear pressed against his chest, right above his heart. Sometimes he’s running his hands through her hair and tracing shapes on her back and other times, his arm is hanging loosely around her, as if shielding her. She’ll always detach herself from him slowly, carefully, making sure not to wake him. She succeeds (she’ll never notice the times she doesn’t, when she creeps out of the room and his eyes follow her until she’s obscured from view.)

 

He’ll look at her, examine her when she fiddles with her rings and she begins to notice that sometimes, when he’s not doing anything but staring at the house, he’ll fiddle with his too. She notices that while she sometimes takes off her rings, he _won’t_. She’s never once seen him remove the ring from his finger.

 

He talks to her more about all kinds of stuff and not just about the case or Jim (he winces oh-so-slightly and if she weren’t looking, she wouldn’t even see it) when she calls Moriarty _Jim_.

 

He calls her out on it once. “Why do you insist on still calling him _Jim_?” His voice is snappy, frustration seeping through.

 

“Be…because that is or _was_ his name.”

 

“His name is _Moriarty_.” Sherlock snarls and his eyes are furious as they seek hers out.

 

She feels her throat go dry. “To you, yes. He…what he did, what he made you do…I’ll…I’ll never forgive him for it but he was…he was _Jim_ to me. He was nice and sweet and he watched telly with me and cooked once and he laughed with me and he kissed really-” She stops when finally looks at him. His mouth is hanging open and he’s staring at her as if she’s a monster (maybe she is, maybe she’s the monster not Jim) “He was _Jim_ to _me_.” She shifts her feet, “I’m sorry.” She finishes lamely.

 

He doesn’t talk to her for two days. He doesn’t sleep in the same bed as her for two nights. Instead, he lounges in his silk dressing gown and refuses to look at her. She’s done nothing wrong, she’s sure of it but she can’t help but feel guilty. She can’t help but feel ashamed.

 

By day three of his silent treatment, she’s had enough. “I get that you’re angry with me. I get that you’re angry at this situation and I…I understand that you’re angry with Ji- _Moriarty_ but I had _nothing_ to do with it. I _wept_ when I realized who he was. Do you understand that? After I found out about what he did…to John and you and _God_ , Mrs. Hudson, I cried and blamed myself for letting him get so close.” She takes a deep breath and struggles to find words. “And even if we weren’t serious, he still…he _saw_ me. And maybe it was to get close to you, although God knows why he would chose to go through _me_ , he liked me, how…however slightly. I know he did. So, I’m…I’m _sorry_ , Sherlock. But you can’t…you can’t shut me out, all right? Because I’m… _I’m_ all you have right now. You’re… _you’re_ all I have right now too.”

 

She goes to sleep that night alone but it’s only an hour or so later, when she’s finally drifting off into sleep that she feels the bed dip and she feels feather light kisses against the back of her neck. “Forgive me.” He whispers softly, “forgive me, Molly.”

 

(It’s an absolution she’ll always give.)

 

She blinks when she hears a male voice curse and suddenly, she’s not the only one underneath the awning. She turns her head to see a tall man, built like a _house_ , his muscles straining against his wet shirt. He’s blonde with dark eyes and has dimples. He turns to her and raises his eyebrows. “Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

 

She blushes and looks to the ground. “Not at all.” Then she takes note of his accent. “You’re British!”

 

He smiles and its soft and it looks…wrong on him. As if he doesn’t entirely know how to smile without grimacing. His eyes are roving over her and she shifts uncomfortably and adjusts the bag, purposely showing her rings. He chuckles. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to be rude. Bloody cold, yeah?”

 

Molly nods. “Reminds me of London actually.”

 

They talk for a few more minutes about the weather and how he comes here because a house was left to him. She tells him that she’s on her honeymoon.

 

Then he looks past her shoulder and a small, cold smile crosses his face before he looks back at her and suddenly the once cold smile is replaced with a softer one. “Time for me to leave.”

 

“It’s still raining quite hard.” She says.

 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Just a bit of water. I’m sure I can make a game out of it. Life’s a game, innit? I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Molly.” And he leaves quickly. Molly blinks and he’s _gone_.

 

Not even a few moments later, to her surprise she sees Sherlock, clutching an umbrella and striding quickly to where she’s standing. “What are you doing here?”

 

“You were taking too long.” He answers her.

 

“So…you came looking for me?”

 

He doesn’t say anything, instead, he just grabs the bag from her and places the umbrella over the two of them and they walk back to the house.

 

(It isn’t until later that she remembers the British man called her _Molly_ when she’s _positive_ that she didn’t tell him her name.)

* * *

She’s shivering as soon as she enters the house. “You know…” she says, her teeth chattering as she struggles to get the kettle of water on the stove, “movies forget to mention…freezing to death while in the rain.”

 

“You won’t freeze to death.” Sherlock responds, taking the pot from her hands, putting it on the stove and turning it on. “It’s hardly cold enough.”

 

“Feels bloody cold enough.” She replies. She grunts as she lifts herself onto the counter, her dress clinging to her body and making a mess on the marble. She can’t bring herself to care. She rubs her hands over her thighs and grabs a dishtowel and dries out the excess water from her hair. She’s so busy drying herself that she doesn’t look at Sherlock until she feels warm hands on her bare thighs.

 

Her body goes still. Her heart skips a beat and she feels her breath hitch in her throat. “What…what…are you doing?”

 

“It’s simple really.” He says, as his hands trace circles and inch higher. “Body warmth. I’m ensuring you don’t freeze to death.”

 

“Wh…why?” Oh. _Oh_ , his hands are softer than she thought they would be and just as skilled as she imagined. She closes her eyes, mouth falling open. When he doesn’t say anything, she opens her eyes and is taken aback at the look in his eyes. His pupils are wide. “Sher…Sherlock? Please…please.” She doesn’t know what she’s pleading for. For him to stop? No. _Never_. For him to just lean forward and capture her lips? For his hands to inch higher and higher until his fingers reach into her depth and until she’s arching off the counter?

 

He leans forward, his forehead against hers, “Molly.”

 

She leans forward with courage she didn’t even know she possessed and captures his lips with hers. It takes a second, just a _second_ , before he responds and every other kiss, every other caress she’s had, fades away to nothing. Nothing else matters, no one else matters. Just _Sherlock_.

 

He kisses her like a puzzle. Tongue sweeping into and tracing every contour of her mouth. Her hands are wrapped around his neck, pressing herself as close to him as possible. She moans into his mouth as his hands bunch her dress up around her waist, warm hands gripping her thighs and pulling her towards him. She wrenches her mouth away from his and breathes deeply as she wraps her legs around his waist. His mouth trails along her jaw and collarbone, placing kisses on her wet skin.

 

Her head is swimming with thoughts and her body is aching to have him. She wants _all_ of him and her heart is beating rapidly. “Sherlock.” She breathes. “Sherlock.” _Good God_. What are they doing? Will this change anything? _Of course it will, Molly, you stupid little girl. Now you know what he tastes like and you want more. You need more. You crave more._

 

(Molly has never done drugs in her life, but she’s certain that Sherlock Holmes will be her drug of choice.)

 

She’s cradling his erection in between her legs and she can feel it straining against his trousers. All she wants is to just pump her hips and…she stops thinking because he leans forward, pressing harder against her and kisses her mouth with bruising intensity, his hands clutching tightly at her hips and hers buried deep in his dark curls.

 

It all happens at once, she moans, he growls, the kettle pierces the air with a shrill shriek and he jumps away from as if she shocked him. His eyes are wild and he’s staring at her, like she’s some sort of foreign object. She’s panting for breath and she knows that she looks like a right mess. Dress hiked around her waist, legs bare and spread, body flushed. “Sher…Sherlock?” She questions, she’s stammering because of the way he’s looking at her, like he wants to devour her and destroy her all at once. (She’d let him, dear _God_ , she’d let him.)

 

“You should…” His voice is strained and he trails off. He clears his throat and rights his clothes. “You should be sufficiently warm enough now.”

 

Horror builds and drops in her stomach and she has the sudden urge to vomit. Tears prick her eyes and she slides off the counter, feet hitting the floor. She almost stumbles and he reaches to catch her but she wrenches away from him. “Don’t.” She snaps, her voice croaks, “don’t…just… _don’t_.”

 

_Oh, it hurts. It hurts._

 

He’s staring at her, erection still straining against his trousers. He looks…she doesn’t know how he looks. She could never read him. Not even when she thought she could. “Molly.” He implores her.

 

“You can…you can make your own tea. I don’t…I _can’t_.”

 

She pushes past him and strides to the bedroom where she slams the door, hearing it reverberate through the walls (she wonders if he winces) and goes straight into the bathroom, where she strips down and takes a shower.

 

(She takes a hot one, hoping that it will erase the feeling of him. It doesn’t. If anything, it just reminds her of how warm his hands were against her thighs and that sets her off crying.)

* * *

She’s drying her hair, towel wrapped securely around her body when she walks into the room. On the bedside bureau, there is a cup of tea, no longer steaming, but sitting there cold and waiting for her.

 

Molly doesn’t drink it. Instead, she slips on a shirt and crawls into bed.

 

(He doesn’t come to bed that night. She’s never been so cold.)

* * *

For the first time she can remember, her mother was wrong. The love that Molly finds isn’t the type of love that fills her up with happiness and smiles.

 

No. Molly’s type of love is the all-consuming type of love that burns her down to her core. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Lord, I love you guys. All of you. HUGE SHOUTOUT TO MY REVIEWERS both on AO3 and FF: Doctor WTF, actressen, CreamCrop, M.Gorgas, crooney83, Zora Arian, Alice, Diana Holland, Fayth3, hihiyas, varjaks, Nocturnias, Hot4neville, magicstrikes, sherloky, Never.Present.Mind, coloradoandcolorado1, Angelico3156789 and guests. If I missed anyone I greatly apologize!
> 
> HUGE SHOUTOUT TO EVERYONE who left Kudos/Fvaorited/Alerted/Subscribed you guys are awesome and words cannot describe how much you all mean to me. Seriously. Words cannot describe.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that Explicit rating? It takes effect. Now. Sexy times ensue. And then an unwanted visitor appears.

She’s the one doing the ignoring now. She wants to say that it’s on purpose, that when he walks into one room, she leaves it for some sort of twisted vindication. That’s not true though. She doesn’t _like_ ignoring him. Molly has never been _good_ at ignoring him, but _God help her_ , she’s fantastic at it now.

 

Everything is still so raw for her. His hands, she’s sure, have branded her and his lips are like phantom weight along her body. She aches for him. She wants to grab him and kiss him until they’re both out of breath and until the other day has been _erased_ from their minds. She knows it won’t. She’ll always remember it.

 

He used her. He _uses_ her. And Molly can’t even fault him for it because she _lets_ him.

 

Molly does admit though, that she uses him too. There is a sort of protective safety about Sherlock that Molly likes. It could be his height, it could be the way his eyes seek her out and study every inch of her but Molly knows it’s none of that. It’s not his prominent cheekbones or his strong jaw, it’s not the taunt muscles that line entire body (and Molly knows they’re there, she’s _felt_ them), no, instead, it’s his mind.

 

His beautifully dangerous mind. He’s smarter than any person she’s ever met. He’s also crueler than any person she’s ever met and she thinks (or she once thought, she’s not sure _what_ she thinks anymore) that he takes perverse pleasure in ripping someone’s life apart. At spilling their deepest secrets and insecurities with no thought as to who is around them during his devastating deduction. (And they truly are devastating, Molly should know, she’s been the main target plenty of times.)

 

So, she ignores him, not because she wants to be cruel (Molly doesn’t have it in her to be cruel, at least not deliberately) but because she can’t stand to look at him. Because if she does, she knows she’ll break. She knows that he’ll look at her imploringly and that he’ll leave the spot on the loveseat next to him empty and she’ll end up _sitting_ next to him and everything will go back to normal.

 

But Molly doesn’t want normal.

 

Molly just wants him.

 

(This curse is for both of them. There is no blessing in this.)

* * *

Sherlock isn’t in the house and for once, Molly feels like she can breathe deeply without worrying that he’ll come up behind her or God forbid try to touch her (because while Molly knows she’s strong, she’s not strong enough to deny him, not when she’s _needed_ him for _so long_.) She makes her way into the kitchen, makes something small to eat and follows the well-worn path to the bedroom. She grabs her mobile, lying flat on her back and dials a familiar number.

 

_“Molly?”_ Her brother’s voice is worried, angry and a little bit relieved. _“It’s almost been a month!”_

“I’ve messaged you.” Molly tells him softly. She knows its not enough.

 

_“A message once a week telling me you’re fine is not a message. It’s platitude just to make sure I don’t file a missing persons report.”_

 

“Well good thing you didn’t.” Molly says. He’s silent on the other line and Molly knows he’s gnawing on his bottom lip. “You didn’t…did you?”

 

_“I have no idea where you are! You don’t answer my calls or my messages except for one a week. One. So, yes, I filed a bloody police report with that Lestrade man who I remember you mentioned a few times and I told him I was worried. And by the way, Scotland Yard really pisses me off.”_ He takes a deep breath, _“Molly, I’m worried about you.”_

 

“I’m fine.” She lies. She never used to lie to her brother.

 

_“You’re lying!”_ He snaps. _“Molly, I’m your brother, I’ve been with you your entire life, and you think I don’t know when you’re not fucking fine? Give me a little credit, Molls. What’s going on? Where are you? Molly, come home. You’re not happy. Please, Molly, we love you. I love you.”_

 

And because Molly is weak and obviously not as strong as she thought she was, tears leak from her eyes. “Do you love Katie?”

 

_“What?”_ Her brother is confused. _“What the hell kind of question is that?”_

 

“Just answer it. Do you love Katie?”

 

_“Of course I do. She’s my wife. She’s my partner. She’s the mother of my unborn child and she’s a mother to Sammy. She’s…she’s my other half.”_

 

“How did you know when you met her that you would love her?”

 

He laughs wearily. _“I didn’t. I actually hated her when I first met her. I thought she was a snob and pretentious.”_

 

“Then why did you fall in love with her?” Why _do_ people fall in love? Molly wants to know this. Molly wants to know how one person can fall in love with another and have their entire life revolve around them. What makes one person more attractive than others, even if the said person makes the other miserable and reduces them to a weeping psychological mess?

 

He lets out a frustrated sigh and Molly knows that he’s running a hand through his hair. _“I didn’t even realize I was in love with her until I saw some bloke chatting her up at a bar. God, Molls. You would have been ashamed of me. This raw feeling just overcame me and I wanted nothing more than to pound the shit out of this bloke and I was furious because she was responding and I had no idea what was happening because I had never felt like that before. Then he put his hand around her and she flinched and I snapped. Literally, punched the guy right in the nose.”_

 

She chokes out a laugh. “You never told me this. Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

 

_“Because I didn’t want you to think that I’m some possessive prat. I’m not proud of it but it just…happened. I didn’t even know what the feeling was, it was just…you know that feeling we get whenever Sammy is hurt or he cries?”_ Oh God. Yes. It’s a gut-wrenching feeling that feels like fire burning a path through their veins. _“It was like that. That’s how I knew.”_ He clears his throat and sighs, _“Molly, what’s wrong? Please…please tell me.”_

 

“I shouldn’t have come on this vacation.” She admits to him, she sniffles and wipes at her face. “It hasn’t done me any good. If anything it’s made me worse and I can’t…he’s…everywhere.”

 

Her brother is silent. _“Sherlock? Are you talking about Sherlock Holmes?”_

 

“Yes.” She sobs. “Oh God. I love him. I love him and I don’t want to love him because it hurts and I want it to stop hurting because I can’t…I can’t…not anymore.”

 

_“Oh, Molly.”_ Her brother says softly. _“It doesn’t work like that.”_

 

“I know!” She bursts, “but I wish…I wish…I didn’t feel so lost. So confused. So sad. He makes me sad. All the time. Every time. Always.” She’s talking about him in the present tense and she’s thankful that her brother doesn’t bring it up.

 

_“Molly…I want to tell you that it will be better with time but time…it just makes it worse sometimes, yeah? But one day, you’ll wake up and maybe you’ll love him a little less than you once did.”_

 

That’s a scary thought. She doesn’t want to love him any _less_ ; she just wants _him_ to love _her_ a little _more_. Or feel something a little more for her. “What if I don’t want that to happen?”

 

_“Well then…I did tell you, you’re a masochist, right?”_

 

Molly blubbers, a sharp laugh erupting from her throat. “I am.” She agrees. “For fuck’s sake, I really truly am.”

 

The Hooper siblings laugh until they start crying.

* * *

When she hangs up with her brother, she goes into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face. She looks at herself in the mirror as she dries her face and she sighs. She looks like a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, her cheeks are flushed and she looks tired.

 

(For her sake, she hopes Sherlock ends whatever _this_ is with Sebastian Moran soon because all she wants is to go home and forget this God forsaken vacation ever happened. Maybe she’ll delete it, just like she knows he probably will.)

 

She walks back into the room and jumps when she sees Sherlock seated on the edge of the bed. Oh. _Oh_. Her heart starts to speed up again and Molly knows in that moment that she’ll never delete this. She’ll never delete him or how the rings feel around her finger.

 

She wants to leave. She wants to scurry into the kitchen, the garden, the village, _Switzerland._ Anywhere that will put distance between them. But she doesn’t. She’s frozen in place, staring at him as he looks at her. He looks…wounded. Tired and Molly suddenly feels ashamed for her attitude over the past few days. Because no matter how horrible she’s feeling, it probably doesn’t compare to how he’s feeling. He’s been on the run for the past two and a half years, trying to protect them all (and _yes_ , she thinks, _that does include me too_ ), he’s spent the past two and a half years trying to clear his name and to finally be able to come back home and Molly is acting like a spoiled rotten little shit.

 

“Do I truly hurt you that much?” He asks, his baritone voice echoes throughout the room, even though it’s softer than it normal is.

 

She wants to tell him _no_. She wants to tell him that she _knows he doesn’t mean it_ , that _he can’t help it_ , that _it’s who he is and she accepts him for it_ but she can’t. So, instead, she tries for the truth. “Yes.” She wonders how much of her conversation he heard and she’s cursing herself for being so stupid.

 

They’re silent for a few moments, both of them not saying anything and Molly sighs and moves to walk out of the room and into the kitchen, or the garden, or the village, or Switzerland. She can walk to Switzerland from here, can’t she?

 

She doesn’t get far, Sherlock reaches out and grabs her wrist, fingers firmly pressed against her pulse. She knows what he feels. Her blood is pumping furiously into her body.

 

“I hurt you, yet you still feel for me.” He doesn’t ask it as a question. Just an inquiry and his eyes are inquisitive, as if asking why. _Why, Molly? Why put yourself through the trouble of loving me?_

 

To which Molly will always answer, _because I just do_. “Yes.” She breathes. “Always.”

 

He walks closer to her, hand still clasped around her wrist. “Molly, I…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence but Molly finds that he doesn’t have to. With Sherlock, actions always speak louder. Molly’s always known this and she thinks that’s another reason why she loves him. He can use his words for cruelty but when it really counts, he’ll _show_ you your worth. He clears his throat and a small smile tugs across his lips. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

 

_Am I?_ She looks down and realizes that _yes,_ she is indeed, wearing one of his white button-down shirts. “Sorry.” She says.

 

“Don’t be.” His fingers come up and unbutton the shirt, until it’s open. She’s not wearing a bra underneath the shirt, just a pair of black cotton panties. His soft, warm hands trails from her hips up her torso and his hands cup her breasts.

 

She gasps and arches towards him. And then she opens her eyes. “Sherlock.” She needs to _leave_. She needs to walk away and out the door and never come back. She should leave. That would be the smart thing to do because Molly…Molly can’t take any more heartbreak. She can’t take it. She won’t…she can’t. “If we do this,” she says, her voice is shaky, “I don’t think…there’s no going back.”

 

His eyes widen and he nods. He looks unsure of himself and for once Molly thinks that he and she are on the same playing level.

 

She takes his hands off her breasts and clasps them in her own hands and then tugs him to the bed.

 

For the first time, _Sherlock Holmes_ follows _her_. 

* * *

 

It’s the middle of the day and she’s not surprised that it’s raining. The curtains are open and Molly wants to get up and close them, to shield them from any prying eyes but she finds that she can’t. Partly because she doesn’t want to but mainly because she really _can’t._

 

Sherlock is trailing his mouth down her body, placing open mouth kisses. His mouth latches onto her left nipple, sucking and biting and then switching to her right one. She’s gasping and moaning and arching her back because this _is_ happening. This _isn’t_ one of her dreams. And _oh God, it feels glorious_.

 

She whimpers when she feels his fingers, feather light over her panties and she grips his biceps when he pushes her panties aside and slides his index finger over her, swirling in her warmth. She thrusts her hip, trying to encourage him to go deeper but he pulls his fingers away. He lifts his face from her breasts and there’s a smirk on his face and she can’t help but laugh.

 

“Sherlock, please.” She breathes.

 

He’s still clothed and his shirt slides along her hardened nipples, causing an undeniable friction. “Please _what_ , Molly?” He asks, his mouth close to hers. They’re not kissing, just sharing the same breath.

 

“Well, for one. You can take off your clothes.” _And then touch me and never stop._

 

She struggles to get into a seated position, back against the headboard. She still has his shirt on, unbuttoned and spread apart and she watches as he sits back and takes off his shirt, trousers and pants.

 

_He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful._ She thinks it should be a crime to be this beautiful. His body is littered from barely there scars and Molly thinks they make him even more beautiful. She knows now, why women call some men living _Gods_.

 

His fingers are in the waist of her panties and he pulls them down over her hips, thighs, legs, through her feet and tosses them on the floor, to join his pile of clothes. She goes to slip his shirt off of her but he stops her. “Leave it on.” He says. His pupils are wide and black and he’s looking at her with want _and_ need, it leaves her breathless. She nods, hands reaching for him and pulling him to her, capturing his lips with hers.

 

He cups her face and kisses her deeply, arms around her waist and holding her in place. She can feel his erection against her thigh and she reaches down and grips him in her hand. He wrenches his mouth away from hers and places his forehead against hers, breath coming out in huffs and puffs as she applies more pressure and less pressure on his pulsing erection. He pulls her hand away from him and shakes his head at her. He kisses her lips, jaw, collarbone, breasts and trails down her stomach.

 

She’s still in a seated position, with her back still against the headboard when his mouth latches onto her core. She lets out a small cry, thrusting her hips upwards. “Oh God. Sherlock.” His eyes are open and staring at her, never letting go and Molly finds that she can’t look away. Her knees are bent, feet firmly planted on the bed and she’s spread open for him and he _takes_ her. His tongue swirling into her depth and heat and she makes mewling noises when he adds a finger and then a second. She explodes, seeing starts when her sucks her small bundle of nerves and curls his finger _just so_. He laps her up and pulls his head away, eyes dark and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

She pulls him down and kisses him roughly, tasting herself on him.

 

“Condom.” She rasps. “Please tell me there are condoms.”

 

He reaches over to the bedside bureau and opens the drawer, pulling one from the drawer. She frowns and his cheeks flush. Molly doesn’t push the subject. She just watches as he slips it on and then pulls her down until she’s underneath him.

 

( _God._ She hopes he doesn’t regret this later, she doesn’t think she can take it if he does.)

 

He enters her with one solid thrust and her entire body stills. Her breath hitches, her heart stops. He takes a moment to suck in a deep breath and then he pumps his hips against hers. Molly can’t help but moaning and gasping and she prays. Not to Gods who have never answered her prayers but to Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Always _Sherlock_. “Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

 

His hands hold her hips tightly enough to bruise but Molly doesn’t care. She wraps her legs around his waist and her hands are in his hair, running down his back, clutching his arse trying to pull him deeper inside of her.

 

He’s grunting and he’s kissing her with intensity. He sucks at her neck and she whimpers as she feels a familiar burning sensation. “Molly. Molly. Molly.” He repeats her name over and over again and she knows the way his thrusts are speeding up that he’s close to the edge.

 

She slides one hand down their attached bodies and touches herself, she can hear him groan and one of his hands comes off her hip and grips her free left hand. Molly turns her face and sees their interlaced hands, their ring fingers clasped tightly to each other, mirroring one another.

 

“Sherlock.” She pants and she turns her face back to him only to find him staring at the rings with wonderment and when he looks at her, he smiles, a full-blown smile that turns into an _O_ and he stretches out against her and growls out her name. Molly shrieks as her orgasm slams against her not even seconds later.

 

They’re both panting and staring at each other. He pulls out of her and rolls onto his back. Without hesitation, he pulls her towards him without saying a word and she rests her head atop his chest, where his heart lies and listens to it beat rapidly.

 

(It doesn’t slow down.)

* * *

Molly wakes a few hours later to her body feel sore. She’s naked and confused for a moment before it hits her. _Oh. I just had sex with Sherlock and it was everything I thought it would be._ She looks to her side and sees the space next to her empty.

 

She bites her lip and ignores the stinging in her eyes. She reaches for her panties, pulls them on and strips off his shirt and pulling one of her long jumpers on. She sits back down on the bed and takes a few deep breaths. She sees him come to stand in the doorway. He’s fully dressed. She looks away.

 

“Moran has been spotted. He’s here and I have to…Molly…I won’t be long.”

 

“It’ll end then?” She asks softly. She’s not just asking about his quest to bring down Jim’s network. She’s asking about _this_. About what just happened hours earlier.

 

He grabs her hand and pulls her towards him. “This…will not go back to the way it used to be. Do you understand me?”

 

She bites her lip and nods. _Yes_. She understands him. _Kind of. Not really_. She’ll no doubt go over it while he’s gone.

 

He leans down and kisses her softly on the lips.

 

And then he’s gone.

* * *

She’s in the kitchen, her back to the door when she hears it open. “Back already?” She calls out.

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer and Molly turns around and lets out a small yelp as she takes in the man standing before her.

 

It’s the same man who shared the awning with her. The tall blonde one, built like a house with dark eyes and dimples. “Hello Molly. I’ve heard a lot about you. Do you know who I am?”

 

She looks at him intently and the suddenly she’s overcome with a memory.

 

_“Who’s he?” She asks Jim._

_“Hmm?” Jim asks her, arms around her waist._

_She gestures her head to his phone that vibrates with a picture of a blonde man with dark eyes and dimples. “Him. And shouldn’t you answer it?”_

_“No. He can wait. And him, he’s…well…he’s Seb.”_

_“Boyfriend?” She teases him and laughs when he kisses her deeply._

_Jim runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “He’s the Watson to my Sherlock.”_

_“That’s…cute. You know, he’s kind of cute.”_

_Jim grins like the Cheshire cat. “You think? I’ll be sure to introduce you two then.”_

 

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh. God._ “Seb.” She breathes. His eyes hardened and she scrambles to correct herself. “Sebastian Moran.”

 

“Jim spoke highly of you. He told me that I wasn’t to kill you.”

 

“Then why are you here?” She asks, her voice surprisingly strong even though she feels like her body is going to explode with nerves and fear.

 

He chuckles. “Oh. He said I wasn’t to _kill_ you. Not that I couldn’t _break_ you.”

 

There’s a pause and then lunges at her.

 

(Molly always knew that _one_ of these days; _one_ of Sherlock’s favors would be the death of her.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex scenes…not really my thing but I mean…hopefully it was good since I’m kind of blushing like mad right now. 
> 
> Your responses have been amazing and I love you all. Seriously love you all. 
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT TO MY REVIEWERS on AO3 and FF: whytejigsaw, kawoosh, ladycorvidae, Diana Holland, TheSmilingCat, actressen, magicstrikes, Idle Writer of Crack, varjaks, hihiyas, Doctor WTF, Rocking the Redhead, MaryHooper, Lono, AussieMaelstrom, coloradoandcolorado1, Duckyd16, fayth3, Never Present Mind, Potix, and Maya. If I missed anyone I apologize! You guys are awesome. Your support means the world!
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT to everyone who left Kudos/favorites/bookmarks/subscribers/alerters you guys are AWESOME!


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb and Molly have a rather intense conversation and Molly breaks a little bit more.

When she wakes up, Molly has a headache. And not the kind where all she has to do is pop a couple of pills, drink a glass of water and then sleep the pain away, _no_. This is the type of headache that makes her feel like her skull has been split in two. This is a pounding from the inside out. It makes her dizzy; it makes her nauseous and most of all…it makes her pissed.

 

And then she’s aware of other parts of her body that hurt. Her arms are stretched behind her back and around a wooden chair, tied tightly. The same can be said for her feet, each tied around the leg of the chair, just as tightly. Her body is going numb and Molly knows it’s from the pain she’s in.

 

For one split second, she wonders where she is and then she remembers. Brittany. Sherlock. Fake marriage. Rings. Sex. Sebastian Moran. Ah. _Yes_. Sebastian Moran. He’s standing across from her, body lounging, gun on the table. He’s staring at her, eyes bright and insane. She vaguely wonders what Jim ever saw in him. And then she curses the day she ever met Jim and hopes that he’s rotting in the deepest pit of hell.

 

“How is it that, _you_ , one little slip of a woman captured Jim to the point that he, sometimes, forgot about me?” Sebastian asks. He sounds genuinely confused.

 

_This makes the two of us_. “He didn’t.” She croaks. “He always remembered you. He talked about you sometimes.” That’s not a complete lie. He talked about him once, when Molly was stupid enough to ask.

 

Sebastian leans forward. “What did he say?” He sounds eager.

 

Molly stares at him, head swarming. “He said you were the _Watson to his Sherlock_.”

 

Sebastian smiles wistfully and he gets up, stretching his arms above his head. He drops them back down to his sides and walks towards her. He brings a hand to her face and cups her cheek. Molly flinches. His eyes grow cold and he grips a hand in her hair and pulls. She lets out a shriek and tears sting her eyes. “He had such a way with words, didn’t he? Want to know what he told me before he left to fucking kill himself? _Don’t kill her Sebby, I quite liked Molly Hooper_.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Molly blubbers. “I didn’t…we were friends.” Friends who occasionally kissed but that was _all_. There was no fire. No passion. He was a fill-in for Sherlock. He was just…someone who made her less lonely.

 

“Did you fuck him?”

 

“No.” She gasps as he pulls harder. “I swear. Kissed, yes. But I didn’t…it didn’t even get that far. We were friends…that’s it.”

 

He lets go of her hair and she breathes deeply, taking in huge gulps of air. He leans forward and presses his nose against her neck. “But you’ve been naughty, haven’t you? You smell like _sex_ , Molly. I _saw_ you, you know. You and Sherlock…by the way, fantastic job faking his death. He had me fooled for all of a _week_ before I realized that _he_ was the one hell-bent destroying everything _James_ worked so hard to accomplish. You left the curtains open and well…darling, it was better than porn.”

 

Molly bites her lip and doesn’t say anything.

 

“Where’s Sherlock, Molly? Looking for me? Do you actually _think_ that _Sherlock Holmes_ would have fallen for a trap like that? No. He knew what I was doing. He’s been gunning for me, for _two and half years_ , you think he hasn’t studied me? You think he doesn’t know how I work? He does. But here you are and here I am and Sherlock is _nowhere_ to be seen. Why is that Molly?”

 

_Because I don’t count._ Molly closes her eyes and bites her lip harder.

 

“He knew I’d come here. Sherlock Holmes knows everything. And he left you. He will always leave you.”

 

She shakes her head. _No_. Things are different now. Things are…things are _different_. He even said so. “You’re wrong.” She tells him, her voice soft but strong.

 

He narrows his eyes. “You think that just because you spread your legs for him, he’ll change? Oh sweetheart, men like Sherlock don’t change. Especially not for women like you.”

 

And just like that he unleashes every single insecurity she’s ever had. She knows she’s not beautiful. She knows she’s not alluring. She knows that she’s awkward. She knows that sometimes she’s a bumbling mess but she also knows that she’s got a good heart. And maybe that _does_ leave her open for manipulation more so than others. Maybe that makes her believe things that don’t exist, but she’d never change that part of herself.

 

She’s always been on the sidelines when it comes to the opposite sex. She’s the girl that people come to for help in their studies. She’s the friend that guys come to for advice.

 

She’s the one that Sherlock comes to for favors.

 

_That’s not true_ , a voice inside her head tells her, _don’t listen to him. Don’t. He’s lying._

 

She stays silent.

 

“You’ve nothing to say then? That’s fine. You can listen to me. For the past five years you’ve known Sherlock Holmes and for the majority of them he’s _used_ you. He’s asked for impossible favors and you, _you_ Molly, have always granted them. He asks for body parts, you ask how many. He’s ruined whatever chance you’ve had at romance and it’s _okay_ to you because he gives you that cruel glimpse of hope and _hope_ , that’s what girls like you live on, isn’t it Molly?” He grabs the back of a chair and places it in front of her, the legs dragging along the floor making screeching noises. He sits on it and leans forward, grabbing her face between his hands roughly. “I know everything there is about your one-sided relationship with Sherlock.”

 

“You don’t know anything.” She says through clenched teeth. Inside her body, she can feel her heart thumping. She can feel her blood pumping through her veins.

 

“Irene Adler is still alive, Molly and Sherlock…after everything you’ve done from him, kept that from you. Why don’t you ask him what happened between himself and Adler.”

 

Irene Adler? Oh. _Oh_. _Irene Adler_ , the dead dominatrix that Sherlock identified by _not-her-face_. Although, if what Sebastian says is true, she’s not so dead and Molly is definitely very stupid. She can’t help the tears that escape from her eyes.

 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Sebastian asks softly.

 

Molly opens her eyes and stares at him. He looks different than before. He looks…lost. Depressed. Alone. Molly thinks for a brief second that in another life, they could have been friends. They could have commiserated together about loving two people who could never love them back. Her breath hitches. “You loved him, didn’t you? Jim, I mean.”

 

Sebastian smiles and it’s a bit sad, a bit twisted. “It wasn’t enough for him. Just like Sherlock will never love you. You see Molly, Sherlock and Jim are similar in that they have their work and it consumes them but Sherlock, well he’s already got Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Adler and John. He’s got _John_ , Molly. Why would he need _you_?”

 

Her heart hurts but she ignores it. She won’t concentrate on her heartbreak. She has the rest of her life to regret ever meeting Sherlock Holmes. “Why did Jim tell you not to kill me?” She would much rather be _dead_ than face Sherlock after this. She wonders how he’ll look at her. Will he look at her differently? Will he be impassive? Will he try to comfort her? It feels like a large balloon in swelling in her chest and she can feel it bubbling up. She wants to laugh hysterically until she’s crying, until she’s screaming herself hoarse. _Oh, Molly. You stupid little girl._

 

He leans back and grabs a rectangle from his boot. He flicks it open and Molly flinches when she sees the blade. He won’t kill her but he did promise to break her and Molly isn’t sure which one is worse. His words have shattered her. Tearing into everything she already knows but refused to acknowledge because for once, everything was fine. For once, for those few blissful hours, Molly Hooper was _happy_.

 

“I think,” he says slowly, as if testing out the words, “you reminded him of the life he could have had. Of the innocence he never allowed himself to feel. He was quite poetic, our James.”

 

_He was never mine_ , she thinks. _Neither of them were ever mine._

 

He stands and his hand reaches out, grasping at her hair and pulling it. Her neck is bared to him and she can feel the cool blade against it. He leans forward, his breath hot in her ear. “This is one promise I’m going to break.”

 

She never told Sherlock that she loves him. She wishes she did. Maybe it would have made a difference, maybe it wouldn’t have.

 

It happens simultaneously. She takes a deep breath, the glass behind her shatters, Sebastian screams, wrenching away from her and holding his shoulder wound, the doors burst open and people with guns and armor come rushing in.

 

She’s still taking in deep shaky breaths and she’s still tied to the chair when they walk in. Mycroft, Lestrade, John and Sherlock. Sherlock is sporting a black eye he didn’t have before and John’s knuckles are open and bleeding. Sherlock is holding a gun, his eyes wild as he looks at her.

 

Molly turns her face. The balloon in her chest is still bubbling inside her and Molly begs herself not to break. She’s cried enough, she’s been through enough pain, and she doesn’t need to feel anymore. She’s just tired. She wants to go home. She wants to take off the rings that remind her of things that can never be and she wants to forget this ever happened.

 

Sherlock comes closer to her and grabs the blade Sebastian dropped. He drops to his knees and cuts the restraints around her legs and then moves behind her to cut the ones around her hands. He comes back around and rights the chair in front of her, dropping onto it and he grabs her hands. “Molly…forgive me, Molly. Forgive me.”

 

She looks at Mycroft because she knows that despite the fact French police are here, he’s the one in charge. He’s the one who holds all the power. “Can I shower?” And she staunchly ignores Sherlock because if she looks at him, she’s going to lose it.

 

He nods and Molly pulls her hands out of Sherlock’s grasp and walks to their room, in a daze.

* * *

When she gets into the room, she closes and locks the door. She walks over to the window and pulls the curtains shut and she looks at the bed, still unmade and still bearing their marks from before.

 

Molly bursts into tears before she even makes it into the bathroom. Her body shakes, her throat is raw and Molly pretends not to hear the pounding on the door, demanding that she let him in. (She pretends not to hear the tinge of desperation that leaks from Sherlock’s usually composed baritone voice.)

* * *

She showers with hot water and scrubs until her skin hurts. She dries her body and pulls on the clothes she brought into the bathroom with her. She takes one look at her face and sighs. She still looks like a mess.

 

She opens the bathroom door and jumps when she sees Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s almost exactly the same scenario from earlier, but this time, Molly won’t…she can’t give in. And how the hell did he get in? She locked the door, didn’t she?

 

“What did he say to you?” Sherlock asks, his voice hard.

 

Molly closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. “A few lies. A few truths.”

 

“Molly-”

 

She doesn’t know why she asks it. It’s not like she _wants_ to know. “What happened with Irene Adler?”

 

His eyes widen and he looks to the ground.

 

It’s all she needs. She nods and collects her clothes to put in her suitcase. The case is over. _Everything is over_ and things will go back to normal. Molly knows they will, no matter how much she wants things to change.

 

She wonders what he did with Irene Adler. She wonders what he did _to_ her. Did he make her scream the way Molly did? Did he make her heart burst and set her body on fire? Did she command him? Did Irene Adler bring the great Sherlock Holmes to his knees? Did he like it? Did they do _nothing_? (Molly can only hope and pray and plead)

 

Did _Molly_ mean anything to him? _Anything at all?_

 

Probably not.

 

He looks up at her, shocked and says, “You have been instrumental to me.”

 

_Oh_ , she thinks, _I said that aloud._

 

She closes her suitcase and zips it up. Then she sighs and sits down on the bed next to him. “I’m not going back to London. At least…not now. I’m going...” she lets out a little laugh, “I’m going on a vacation. God knows I need one.” She’ll go see her brother. She’ll go to the house she grew up in, she’ll play with Sammy and she’ll touch Katie’s stomach and revel in her to-be niece or nephew. She just needs to forget about _this_.

 

“Why?” He questions her. He sounds confused and it occurs to Molly that he really is confused. He doesn’t see how being near him is killing her. He doesn’t see that after everything that’s happened she just needs time to gather her bearings. Hours earlier she had sex (really very passionate, toe-curling-scream-inducing-sex) with the man she’s been in love with for the past five years, then a psychotic jilted ex-lover of her Consulting Criminal of an _ex-whatever_ tied her up and held a knife to her throat, fully ready to slit her open and _he can’t comprehend why she needs time_. This oddly does _not_ surprise her.

 

“Because I need to.”

 

“Is this because of _The Woman_? Molly-”

 

“It’s not because of Irene Adler not really being dead or the fact that we’ve been living together, pretending to be married and it’s not just because we had sex today, Sherlock…it’s…God…” she fumbles for her words and plays with a loose string on her jumper, “I love you.” She says finally. “I love you so much it _burns_ and you…you don’t tell me anything.”

 

“I didn’t tell you to keep you safe.”

 

“Safe?” She asks, her voice exasperated. “How is any of this _safe_? How have you ever kept me safe? You have…” _Stop talking Molly. Stop. Talking._ “You have no idea what I’d do for you. What I have done, what I will do and after everything…even after this, I will _still_ probably do anything you ask because _I love you_. But…you…you…Sherlock, you don’t love me and that…that hurts the most. It hurts worse than your insults…and your cruel deductions…and whatever mind-games you come up with.” Her hands are trembling and she clenches them into fists. “So, please…please…Sherlock.” She’s not making sense. She’s not making any sense.

 

He stands up and towers over her so that she has to crane her neck to look up at him and she does look at him, she _is_ surprised to see that his eyes are _furious_. “Please _what_ Molly?”

 

_No. No. He’s not allowed to do that. He’s not…he doesn’t get to do that._

 

“Stop using me. I’m…Sherlock…I’m tired and I think you’ve broken me.”

 

He looks shocked. He looks surprised. He looks _hurt_.

 

“ _Ahem_.” A throat clears from behind him and Molly looks to see Mycroft, Lestrade and John.

 

Molly sighs and tears herself away from Sherlock. “Can I go home now?”

 

“We may all take the jet back to London and then-”

 

“No.” Sherlock states, his voice unreadable. “Molly Hooper would like to go to Cardiff.” He’s still looking down at her, his eyes clouded over and Molly tries hard to rack her brain for reasons why he looks so…broken. (God, the both of them are just such broken messes of the people they used to be.)

 

_Right. Okay_. She rubs her hands over her thighs and smiles tightly. “Thank you for saving me when you did. I’ll…I’ll see you lot later, yeah?” She blinks rapidly and starts walking to the door, she doesn’t move fast enough and one of Sherlock’s hands clasp around her wrist, fingers on her pulse. She knows that he can feel it racing.

 

“Molly.” Sherlock’s voice is strained.

 

She gives him a sad smile and steps forward, balancing herself on her tiptoes and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, “I just…let me have some time. I’ll…I’ll be back and everything…everything will be normal. Like…none of this…ever happened.” She chokes on the last two words and Sherlock’s eyes darken.

 

She turns around and walks out the room, leaving Mycroft, Lestrade and John (the latter two openly gaping at them) in the room with Sherlock.

 

She gets into the car that’s waiting for her and it isn’t until she’s past the garden, past the village, and until the small house is well behind her, that she puts her head in her hands and sobs.

 

(She’s sure she’s left her heart somewhere at Sherlock’s feet.)

* * *

_Cardiff_

 

She knocks on the familiar door and steps back, waiting for someone to open it.

 

It’s late and she knows that she’s waking them up, but Molly needs to see them. See _him_. She needs to be in this house, surrounded by her brother, sister-in-law and nephew.

 

She hears footsteps from inside and her brother wrenches open the door, baseball bat in his hand.

 

He squints. “Molly?”

 

She laughs and it’s empty and hollow. “Surprise.” And then she crumples, shoulders shaking.

 

“Oh, Molly.” He drops the bat and wraps his arms around her tightly.

* * *

Molly is staring at her new niece through the window.

 

“So, she’s my little sister?” Sammy asked, hands gripping the frame and standing on his tiptoes.

 

Molly nods and lifts him up, balancing him on the edge of the frame and holding his body close to her. “Isn’t she beautiful Sammy? Her name is Paige.”

 

“I’m gonna protect her, just like daddy protects you.”

 

Of this, Molly has no doubt. It’s the Hooper way.

 

Her brother nearly had a heart attack when she finally told him what happened. He made her tea and listened to her patiently as she explained and occasionally cried. He clenched his fists, he swore and he made her _promise not to do anything like that ever again_. Then he hugged her and kept saying, “I thought I was losing you Molly. I love you Molly. Welcome home, Molly.”

 

He also said that if he _ever meets Sherlock fucking Holmes, he’s killing him._

 

She’s in Cardiff for a week when Katie goes into labor. Roger panics; Molly takes his face in her hands and tells him to breathe. Then she gets them all in a car and drives them to the hospital, where Roger is still taking deep breaths and Katie is laughing at the backwardness of all of it.

 

Then Roger and Katie disappear into a room and Sammy grabs Molly’s hand as they wait.

 

Which leads them here, to Paige Hooper.

 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Her brother asks softly. He comes to stands by them and Molly turns her head. Roger has a delirious smile on his face and he’s wearing scrubs. He grabs Sammy and kisses his head before he sets him down. “I mean, I’m biased but, she’s going to be a heartbreaker.”

 

Molly laughs softly and leans her head on his shoulder. “Congratulations…mum and dad, they’d be proud.”

 

Roger puffs out his chest and kisses her head. “You know…” he says just as softly, his hands threading through Sammy’s hair, “they’d want you to be happy.”

 

“I am happy.” She says quickly.

 

“You’re not.” He says bluntly. “You want to know how I know you’re not happy?”

 

“How?”

 

He taps her left ring finger. “Because you still have on the rings.”

 

She never took them off and she doesn’t want to go into what that actually means.

 

(In the end, she, along with everyone else who knows them, knows exactly what that means.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! Just one more. Which shouldn’t have you guys waiting too long, because it’s going to be a short-ish one. Hopefully, you never know, with these two. All I know is that they seriously need closure. Right? Who agrees with me?
> 
> Oh, Molly. Guess Seb was too much. Yeah…he’s kind of a nutcase. 
> 
> I really need to balance this out with some fluff. Or smut. One or the other. LOL. 
> 
> You guys. Seriously. I love you. Like hardcore. Your responses to this story has been AMAZING!!! 
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT TO MY REVIEWERS on both AO3 and FF: hihiyas, varjaks, crooney83, magicstrikes, susieqsis, MorbidbyDefault, thestarlitrose, Rocking the Redhead, Fayth3, actressen, Izzie, patemalah21, Lilbookworm89, MaryHooper, Ranawe217, Doctor WTF, Smells Like Old Spirit, Lono, Adi Who is Also Mou, caringis_notanadvantage, Maya and PetraTodd (who is awesome for letting me do this! and well, just awesome period.) 
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT TO everyone who left kudos/favorited/alerted/subscribed OMG YOU ARE ALL AWESOME.


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly comes back to London and she and Sherlock finally have a conversation. That turns into a little more. Sex ensues and feelings come to light.

_3 weeks later_

 

It’s raining in London and somehow, this doesn’t surprise her. She doesn’t bother going to her flat or changing her clothes. Instead she tells the cabbie the address and sooner than she’d like, she’s standing in front of a familiar door.

 

She rings the doorbell and after a few moments of standing idly, the door opens and a frazzled Mrs. Hudson greets her. Her eyes light up and she pulls Molly into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh thank the _Lord_.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?”

 

“He’s been driving us all mad.” Mrs. Hudson, whispers. “It’s been awful. He’s been more awful than usual. John’s moved in with Mary and Lestrade has threatened to shoot him on more than one occasion and Molly, _oh Molly_. He’s upstairs.”

 

“My bags-”

 

“I’ll get your bags. This old hip hasn’t failed me yet and just this once, I’m willing to be a bloody housekeeper if it means straightening his arse out.”

 

Without hesitation, Mrs. Hudson is pushing Molly up the stairs and when Molly gets to the top, she looks back down to see Mrs. Hudson smiling and making shooing gestures with her hands.

 

Molly takes in a deep breath and walks into the sitting area. He’s on the couch, his back is turned to her and all she can see is his pajama bottoms and a blue silk robe. “You’re looking for the sister, Lestrade, how many times must I explain this to you?”

 

“I’m not Lestrade.” Molly says. She’s treading softly. She can tell by his voice that he’s agitated and when Sherlock’s agitated, he’s _cruel_. She’s not entirely sure how he’s going to react to her being here. This is his flat. This is a part of his life that Molly, for all intents and purposes, has no reason being involved in.

 

She still remembers the last time she was in 221b Baker Street. It was Christmas and he _ripped_ her apart. She can still remember telling herself as she watched his mouth move, as she saw Lestrade bow his head, as she saw John close his eyes, as she saw Mrs. Hudson sigh disappointedly, that she would get over Sherlock Holmes. That she doesn’t deserve his cutting remarks. That she deserves better. That he doesn’t deserve her.

 

And so she told him what he does to her, to everyone, _every time, always_ and he kissed her cheek, her heart swelling and hope flooding through her body. Then she heard the throaty moan and was overcome with the realization that it didn’t matter how intently she listened to him, it didn’t matter how she would always be there for him, it didn’t matter how many cups of coffee she made him, or what kind of body parts she gave him, she would _never_ have Sherlock Holmes because _he_ didn’t want _her_.

 

Sherlock twists around and sits upright on the couch, his bright blue eyes seeking hers. “No. You most certainly are not.”

 

She’s wringing her hands together and shifting her feet. He’s still staring at her, eyes examining her. She wonders what he sees, wonders what he’s thinking, wonders how fast his mind is going as he mentally picks her apart. She sighs and pats her hair down. “You’re staring.”

 

“You’re here.”

 

She frowns. “Well, yes. I told you I’d come back.”

 

His bare feet are planted on the ground, hands clasped underneath his chin, as if he’s in prayer, “it has come to my attention that people say things they often do not mean.”

 

Oh. _Oh_. He thought she wouldn’t come back. He thought…he thought she’d leave him. He’s looking everywhere _but_ at her now. She wants to laugh because, really? _Really_? He honestly thought that she would leave him. It’s a ridiculous notion, one that Molly has sometimes entertained the thought of but knew better than to ever follow through.

 

Because for all his proclamations of preferring to be alone, Sherlock Holmes craves comfort. He craves contact. Maybe it’s to have someone he can talk at, maybe it’s to have someone share the silence with, maybe it’s to have someone to solve crimes with him but maybe-just _maybe-_ it’s also a reminder that he is indeed _not_ alone.    

 

She toes off her trainers walks over to where he’s perched on the sofa and gently moves the papers that litter the coffee table to the side. She takes a seat on the table, her socked feet pointing towards him, the tips of her toes touching his. “Not me, Sherlock. Not me.” She takes a gulp and gives him a small smile. “It has, however, come to my attention, that we need to talk.”

 

He’s silent for a moment and then he nods. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Everything. You know everything about me, even without me telling you and I know next to nothing about you. I don’t just want to know about Jim and Mycroft and Irene Adler, Sherlock…I want to know about _you_. From when you were a little boy to a teenager to now. Everything. Whatever your willing to part with.”

 

(She’s given this man everything she has and she hopes that he trusts her enough to give her everything he has too.)

* * *

He starts from the beginning. From the time he was born to when he was a toddler. He was six when he knew he was different. When he knew he could see things differently than other children. It didn’t surprise him, at least not really, because Mycroft was quite aware of his surroundings too, but Mycroft had it under control, Sherlock didn’t. Nor did he want to.

 

Molly’s heart breaks for him when he tells her about how he wanted to be a pirate and how he had a particular fascination with bees. He tells her about his lonely childhood, with an absentee father and a mother who tried her hardest to help him and how he had no friends _because who would want a friend who knows everything about everyone_? He tells her that he never had the need for friends, that they were too dramatic, too troublesome. He was fine being alone.

 

(Molly can’t help but picture a younger Sherlock Holmes in his room; playing pirates all by himself, while outside groups of children are interacting with each other.)

 

He tells her about his teenage years and how he managed to bypass the flailing hormones that drove his classmates into disorientation. (“Are you meaning to tell me, you were a virgin when you went to Uni?” “Of course not. I did engage in intercourse once. It was horrible. I’ve deleted it.”)

 

Then he told her about Uni and how it was _so_ dull and boring. And then he told her in a voice much quieter than he was using before about the drugs. Cocaine. Heroin. Anything that could control his mind. He tells her about the two times he went to rehab. About the two times he got clean and then relapsed. Then he tells her about how he met Lestrade and suddenly, things made sense. He had his outlet. He had his drug of choice; work. Lestrade made him promise to not use anymore and he’d give him all the cases he could ever want.

 

With her heart beating loudly, he absently reaches out a hand and clasps her wrist, two of his fingers on her pulse and he tells her about when he met her. He tells her about his third relapse and he reminds her of the day he snapped and grabbed her so hard he bruised her and terrified her. “You are the reason I went into rehab.” He admits. “What I did to you…I’ve never…Molly, I’ve _never_ laid my hands on anyone…and most certainly I never thought to lay my hands on _you_. Not in that manner, _never_ in that manner.”

 

“I forgave you, Sherlock. That’s all in the past.”

 

“For _you_. Never for me. You didn’t…you didn’t see yourself. You were terrified of me. Of what I could do.”

 

He tells her about John and how for the first time in a while, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

 

Then he talked about Irene Adler and how she needed his help and how in truth, she’s manipulative and conniving but intelligent. They faked her death and she was gone, supposed to stay gone but then he met up with her in America and he needed her help with destroying the American part of Moriarty’s network.

 

(“Did you have sex with her?” Molly asks bluntly. She already knows the answer. She’s known it all along. “Yes.” He answers truthfully. “Was she…good?” Molly blushes and can’t help but wonder if he ever compared the two of them. “It was sex, Molly. Nothing less, nothing more.” Molly wonders if it was just sex with her too.)

 

He tells her about Jim. About everything he did and Molly feels sick to her stomach. He tells her about the Fall. He tells her about his time abroad and how he always kept coming back to London. “You were here. You were always here and you were the one connection I had to my life.”

 

And then they come to France. Brittany. Sebastian Moran.

 

“I knew what he was planning.” Sherlock admits. “I always knew and when I left you that afternoon, I knew that he was going to come in. I had everything planned Molly. Mycroft, John, Lestrade, the police. You _know_ that I would never have let him hurt you.”

 

_But he did_. Molly wants to tell him.

 

There’s a pause, “when I saw him put the knife to your neck, there was no question, there was no hesitation, I shot him. Then you left.”

 

Molly nods, taking in every work he said. “And here we are.”

 

“And here we are.” He repeats, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist and still feeling her pulse.

* * *

Molly isn’t stupid enough to believe that he told her everything but she knows that he told her the more important things and at this point, that’s all she can ask for. “Thank you.” She tells him. “For trusting me with this. With _you_. I promise that no one will know what happened in Brittany. It’ll be…it’ll be like every other day. Like we haven’t skipped a beat. Everything will be normal. Nothing has to change.” She takes a deep breath and she feels like there are a thousand knives piercing her body. She knows that she’ll lie awake at night and remember his touch and she knows that she’ll panic and cry when she can’t remember even that.

 

She moves to get up. She moves to _leave_ because she doesn’t want him to see her cry. Not after everything they’ve been through. She’s surprised when she feels him tug her wrist and pulls her next to him on the couch. His moves are jerky, hesitant, as if he’s new to this. He turns his head and stares at her. “Everything changes, Molly. This is inevitable, but you…you never do.”

 

She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

 

He runs a hand through his dark curls. “Molly.” He warns her. He gives her hand a squeeze.

 

And suddenly she gets it. Oh. _Oh_. _This…will not go back to the way it used to be. Do you understand me?_ He asked her this a couple hours after they had sex in Brittany. At the time Molly _didn’t_ understand. Didn’t think she _could_ understand but she does now. The realization that _Sherlock Holmes_ wants this to _change_ , that _Sherlock Holmes_ wants _her_ , is akin to lighting her body, her soul, her heart on fire and it _burns so nicely_.

 

She scoots closer to him and her hands hesitantly come up to his face, her fingertips grazing his prominent cheekbones, his Athenian nose, his strong jaw and he closes his eyes at her touch. She leans closer, her lips only a breath away from his. “I have a favor to ask.” Molly whispers. His blue eyes snap open. She smiles at him even though her heart is beating loudly. “If we do this, I don’t think…there’s no going back.”

 

His eyes cloud over and without saying anything, his arms circle around her waist and pull her closer to him and closes the gap between them.

 

It’s been so long since she’s felt him, since she’s kissed him and Molly immediately melts into his arms.

 

(He feels glorious. They feel right. It feels like coming _home_.)

* * *

They stumble into his bedroom, clothes falling off faster than Molly can blink. She can barely breathe. They don’t talk.

 

She’s lying on his bed, completely naked and he’s pulling on a condom when he covers her body with his. He places his elbows on each side of her head, trapping her underneath him, his hands run through her hair and he kisses her deeply when he enters her in one swift move. He swallows her gasp and he inhales her cries of pleasure. _Oh_ , she never thought she’d feel this again.

 

It’s not like before, he moves gently, he moves with precision, his thrusts deep and slow and Molly _gets it_ , gets why it’s _making love_ and not just _having sex_. He may not have said it, he may never say it, but with Sherlock Holmes, actions speak louder than words.

 

(It’s the middle of the day and his curtains are open but Molly doesn’t care. She _wants_ people to see. She wants people to know that _this_ is what passion looks like. _This_ is what _love_ can reduce people to.)

 

She whimpers and moans and gasps and prays. Not to any God but to Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Always _Sherlock_.

 

“Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Oh.” Her hands fist his bed sheets and he brings his left hand down to grasp hers. Molly hears a soft clink of metal and she turns her head, lips parting from his and she sees their rings. She kept hers on (she never took them off) but she’s surprised to see his sitting comfortably on his ring finger. She’s entranced by the silver on both of their hands.

 

“I never took it off.” Sherlock tells her, his voice strained and his hips pumping erratically into hers. “Never. Molly.” He drops his forehead onto hers and her eyes turn to his blue eyes, a familiar burning sensation building rapidly in her stomach. “Never.”

 

He grunts and moves and thrusts and Molly is arching her back, left hand clutching his tighter. She can’t help but scream her release as it slams into her. He follows not even seconds later.

 

“Never.” She pants back.

 

_(Never ever.)_

* * *

She’s lying on her stomach, underneath his covers and his hands are tracing shapes onto her bare back and he’s placing open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder. She’s fiddling with her rings and she turns her head and looks at him. “Should I give these back to you?”

 

He’s silent as he lifts his head and flips onto his back, pulling her towards him. She lays her head on his chest, directly atop his rapidly beating heart. He brings her left hand up and fiddles with the rings himself. “I was hoping that you would keep them. And by keep them, I mean that you continue wearing them.”

 

She loses all sense of words. “Sherlock…” she says hesitantly.

 

“I am not saying today. I am not saying tomorrow. I am not even saying three years from now. What I am saying is…someday.”

 

“ _Someday_.” Molly says slowly, as if testing the word. She grins, barely able to hide her joy and buries her head in his chest. “Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They fall asleep like this. Her head atop his beating heart and their hands still clasped, matching sliver rings adorning their left ring fingers side by side, mirroring one another.

* * *

Molly Hooper’s relationship (and it _is_ a relationship) with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor.

 

It ends with a promise. Not for today, or tomorrow or even three years down the road but for _someday_.

 

And _someday_ , well, _someday_ is good enough for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sniffles. OMG. IT’S DONE. DONE. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. No seriously, I can’t. Words cannot describe how much I enjoyed writing this and words cannot explain how much I enjoyed reading each and every single one of your reviews. You all inspire me and it’s because of you guys that I will continue to write Sherlolly fics because I have never, ever come across a fandom and a shipdom with so many amazing people. You guys’ support is astounding and I don’t think words can even express how much I love and adore you guys for sticking with me and responding so kindly to this. 
> 
> I hope this chapter is everything you wanted it to be. 
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT to my reviews of both AO3 and FF: catsgotmytongue, Potix, Nocturnias, Rocking the Redhead, MorbidbyDefault, CreamCrop, crooney83, hihiyas, Fayth3, thestarlitrose, magicstrikes, GoldenVine, Mione W.G, whytejigsaw, Smells Like Old Spirit, Ranawe217, Maya, girlyb, TeddieSigma14 and Guests. If I missed anyone, I am so sorry but know I love you very very much!
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT to everyone who left Kudos/Favorited/Alerted/Followed/Subscribed…words cannot describe how much you all mean to me. 
> 
> Last but certainly not least, one HUGE SHOUT OUT to Petra Todd, whom without, this lovely story would not have even existed. Petra, you are an inspiration to Sherlolly shippers everywhere. Seriously. You are astounding and I thank you so very much for giving me the thumbs up to write this story based on your wicked photoset.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story is based on Petra Todd's Sherlolly photoset with the prompt "Hiding out in the French countryside after the Fall, Molly and Sherlock pose as a married couple. Over time, the line between disguise and reality blurs. Molly is certain Sherlock will push her away after they spend the night together but the man he has become surprises her."
> 
> If you want to see the photo it's here: post/42367339577/hiding-out-in-the-french-countryside-after-the (WARNING: It's not Work safe or Child safe. It does contain nudity and sexual themes, if this is a trigger, do not click on it.) I think it's beautiful but then again I think everything Petra Todd does is beautiful. Which leads me to say that you should definitely, if not already, check out her Tumblr (again it does contain nudity and some of the stuff is not work safe or child safe. There is porn on it, but beautiful Sherlolly porn along with really awesome other things) Hopefully these URLs show up properly. lol.
> 
> So yes, Petra Todd is the inspiration behind this story. Which hopefully lives up to the prompt.
> 
> Comments/Kudos/Thumbs up even are very much appreciated. Also first time using AO3 since Fanfiction is being a little bitch...so bear with me.


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